31.Jan.2002

quiet

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quiet - jan.31.2002- 16.57.24

We found ourselves at the train graveyard, backed up for miles, off-set, off-center, blocked and beautiful, the moon hid itself from the digital camera, and the moon hid itself to my discomfort. And it was quiet, and nothing made sense, and everything made sense.

He said it was beautiful, eyes half-mast, staring into the distance and the buildings from the upstairs windows, cord curled around his hard fingers, face in wonderment, eyes. The ice-storm cut out the electricity; he stretched himself into the dark with me against his ear. And he said it was beautiful.

He found me artistic. I told him the different colors his eyes change in accordance to the moods which seethe from him. "And they darken when you're happy," I said to him.

"Why don't you tell me?" he asked later, pushing aside the hours he wasted begging me.

"I simply don't want to," I responded.

"What's the worst that could happen?" he asked.

"It's already happening," I said.

"Exactly," he murmured. "Don't you think by telling me you could turn this entirely around?"

"Shit," I said, "and you know that's all I want to do, turn this around. You know that."

We discussed candles. We discussed the dark. We discussed the past, we discussed regrets. I finally said, "We have the most fucked up friendship on the face of the planet."

"Yeah," he murmured.

Eventually, he'll figure it out, and eventually, my brother will stop reading over my shoulder.

Let's go, David. I'm hungry.

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time & machine